Thanks for coming to see me, Pete. I’m just gonna lay it out on the line with you: I’m not gonna be commissioner forever, and I wanna make sure the only legacies I leave aren’t steroids and All Star Game ties. So I’m giving some serious consideration to lifting your lifetime ban.
*pfft* About time. You still owe me for killing Bart Giamatti.
But first, I’ll need you to issue a formal public apology for betting on baseball.
No can do, chief. Pete Rose don’t roll that way. I’m like Fonz–I physically can not say I’m sorry!
Even though you just said it.
That was just a hypothetical ‘sorry’. And so was that one. I can’t say it and mean it.
How about a half-assed, sarcastic apology?
That won’t do, either. Pete Rose is unfamiliar with sarcasm, irony, or any form of self awareness.
Then I’m going to need some reassurances from you. I need you to promise me that all of your baseball-related sins have been completely
exposed. Nothing else is gonna come out, is it?
No, of course not.
That’s a relief. Oh, what a joy to know that we can put this nastiness behind us as soon as I finish this sentence that I am currently speak–
Except for maybe a few things.
As I was saying, as soon as I finish this sentence, we can resume our cordial–a few things? A few things like what?
You know, just little tiny things. Eensy things.
Well, as long as they’re not too serious.
That depends on your definition of serious. For instance, would you consider it serious if I shot Carl Yasztremski in the face?
Whoah, you shot Carl Yasztremski in the face?!
Only a little bit!
That can’t be true. Carl Yasztremski getting shot in the face would be pretty big news.
He was vacationing alone in this cabin on a remote lake up in Maine. Nobody even knows he’s there.
Is he dead?
What do I look like, a doctor? By the way, if you could do me a solid and hide this gun for me, I’d really appreciate it.
How about this? I’m going to put this tape recorder on the table. You spill all the beans, just confess all of your crimes against baseball. Thatway, it’s all on record and there will be no secrets between us anymore.
Okay, let’s see…my rookie season, I set Vada Pinson’s glove on fire while he was on the field. I totally intended to end Ray Fosse’s career when I plowed into him at home plate during the All Star Game. I once drop kicked Joe Morgan into the Ohio River, just to prove I could do it…
Seven hours later
…and that was the fifth and final time I organized secret bum fights at Riverfront Stadium to cover my gambling debts. Except for those seven other times.
Wow. I’m still shocked about all that stuff you did with those melons.
My daddy always said, ‘You never truly know the true extent of your gag reflex until you test it.’
And I didn’t think you could ingest that much human blood without getting sick.
Maybe you can’t.
Alright, Pete. I am satisfied that you’ve told confessed everything. Major League Baseball welcomes you back with open arms.
Thanks, Commish! I bet you’ll never regret this! But if you think you might, I know somebody who’ll give you great odds!
I’m a bad wittle boy!
/shrugs, mugs for the camera
/freeze frame, roll credits